So, I've been listening to a certain set of songs so far this summer. a lot. like a lot a lot. this is my soundtrack of the summer. if i were to give it a theme itd be about going places, mostly at least. Here we go... ten songs that make up my summer.
1. A Day To Remember - The Downfall of Us All
2. Valencia - Safe To Say
3. All Time Low - Weightless/A Party Song
4. Farewell - Eighty Eights
5. Mercy Mercedes - Drop Top
6. Hit The Lights - Her Eyes Say Yes
7. A Change of Pace - Summer Girls (LFO Cover)
8. Incubus - Drive
9. The Audition - My Temperature is Rising
10. Ben Harper - Burn One Down
What is your soundtrack to the summer?
last year I had "Drop the Girl" " Bada Bing Wit A Pipe" and "Call Me Jersey" among others...
if there isn't something in that title for everyone, well damn then.
as it says, I get my new tat tomorrow. pictures to follow. it's going to be a compass with a world in side. because, you know, that whole traveling thing sorta appeals to me. just a little bit. sorry AP, no AP related design this time, but my AP heart will be right next to it
new posts, THREE (3) NEW POSTS ON THE WEBSITE.
they are all pretty funny, and i actually agree with people who said that, so that's gotta mean something. check'em out, read them, love me, comment on them.
Back from Vegas. Read some books, saw the strip, ate some food, gambled a bit, didn't win anything. got a tan. sat poolside. that is my experience. my advice, go with someone your own age. I yearn for a partner in crime, i am at my most effective then.
new posts on site, check'em out. they're funny. no really.
You, Me and Everyone We Know are telling me that their family is shouting have another.
"The voice sounds a little like Fall Out Boy."
Not really, no.
Fight Fair slides into the next playing spot. I am some girl's James Dean.
"It sounds like that song, like, five songs ago."
No, again, no.
Bryce Avery is extolling the need to write music to be happy, not for business.
"This sounds familiar. You've played this before haven't you?"
Well, actually no, never in front of you.
I turn my I-tunes off. We'll just watch some tv instead.
(skip ahead, skip ahead)
John and I are crusing up 85, Jersey-bound. We've listened to Slam Crunk about eight times in the past two hours. We rock out. We jam to Sixpence None the Richer. We seat-dance to The Outfield (don't judge you all know you do it, too). Then a few bands come on.
Boys Will Be Boys.
"These sound like Forever the Sickest Kids Bonus Tracks."
School Boy Humor.
"Okay, how is this that different?"
"I heard about these guys. I heard they sound the same as everything else."
And so on and so forth.
"There just needs to be a pop-punk super group," John is telling me. We're in Virginia. Haze hangs over Alexandria. The road is a little bit clogged, but not so bad as I dream about taking John's head and beating it against the window. Or doing it to myself.
"How would that work," I say. He shrugs and we get to thinking.
[sidebar: I have always been against grouping every little band out there together. I have always been one to defend band A or band B because the vocals are slightly different in this way, or they don't have a synth like band C does or anything like that. it annoyed the hell out of me that I had to deal with this all the time. Yeah, things sound alike, but if you like if than what does it really matter...and then I started listening more and more on my semi-frequent 9-hour drives up the Eastern Seaboard. These bands do sound alike. It feels like they are not trying to sound different, just blending in to maybe sell a few records. Their hearts may be in it but what's coming out has already been done, sadly. That said, if you do like the stuff, keep on liking it and don't listen to what others say when they trash the music you like. THAT said, I continue out of this extended sidebar]
We never did come up with anything concrete in our thoughts, but I have since determined a few different things that I think would need to be involved in this pop punk super group.
Lead Guitarist: Lead Guitarist must be able to play three of four notes, over and over. Solos can max out at 7 notes, maybe a bend or a vibrato. This is played in sync with the synth playing. Sleeve tattoos that have no meaning a must.
Rhythm guitarist: Just make sure they're not an idiot. If they can hold a guitar and strum in pattern, you're set. Tell them what to do and let them wear tight pants. Long hair is also a must.
Synth Player: Any good pop punk band includes a synth player these days. It is just, well, the law, it seems. Without them, how could we be able to have all those cool Moog sounds in the middle of songs? On top of that we need those little odd sounds that replicate whatever--instant messages or phone dialing or anything like that. We have the technology, we can rebuild them. If they can dance, well bonus points for them. if they can dance on their synth, well, again, set.
Singer: If they can't sing fast during the verse then ululate uselessly in the chorus, we don't want them. If they whine, they're in. They will need to take two classes: emotional songwriting 101 and mic tricks 211.
Drummer: Teach them to use Garage Band. Teach them drumstick tricks. Make sure they know simple bass-bass-snare beats. Done.
Assorted Instrument Player: Must be well versed in Cow Bell, Keytar, Violin, Cello, Sitar and any other instument that doesn't really go in the usual pop punk. Can wear glasses and look eccentric while they dance.
Well there is a basic outline for the band. Choosing these members, though, that's the hard part. I have one easy solution.
So, yet again i have found things on the internet that, well, they just shouldn't have been made to begin with. This one comes from Sesame Street and is about Cookie Monster eating healthy, that diabetic fuck.
I just have to ask, how can those vegetables deal with themselves after telling people to eat their family. I mean, last time I checked, I wouldn't be okay after saying 'hey, eat my cousin Jimmy, he's fresh, he's sweet and he's extra tasty when topped with whipped cream.'
A friend--we'll call her Princess, as opposed to a) her real name, b) a nickname or c) remaining anonymous (I only say this now because the name will pop up here and there, princess is a friend of mine who I can talk writing with, not some stripper, or anything lascivious like that. See look, bonus points for reading and keeping up. Go you.)-- told me to write about air in my next post. She was tired of reading food, and anyway, she said, the tone was whiny. I thought she was a little crazy and a little stupid--air? really? just talk about air?--until I got to thinking about it. Air. Air air air. We breathe it, we cough it, we choke on it, we blow it, we suck it, we whistle it, we do so many things with air. All that crap, though, would make me sound like some pretentious little dick if I talked about it. I'm not trying to go cosmic here, I don't want to. If my ideas ever become to highfalutin, I am almost certain I'd run full force into a sharp object at heart-height.
There are two kinds of air I love. I absolutely would, if they were physical beings, have sex with them. The first is winter air. At home in Jersey (and anywhere it gets really cold. Really,this feeling is only intensified where the air is... fresher than in Jersey), when it gets colder, the air gets crisper. At dusk, right as the sun is going down and right before the temperature plummets there is that short time where you can still see your breath--thick and slow moving like cigar smoke--but you can still feel your face. Sucking the air in deep, all the way to the diaphragm it chills then stings your insides. What feels like an icicle from your throat to your stomach stays there until you exhale and watch the breath wisp away. I love that air. I love that crisp feeling. I love it even more in the morning when, right after you wake up, walking outside for the mail or the paper you can stretch, inhale, and become awakened( get awoken? become awake?) instantly. It is a jolt. And I like jolts.
The second kind of air isn't air I should love. This is a dirty, hot, heavy secret relationship fit only for back alleys and two-dollar whorehouses. I love city air. Let me be more clear, I love New York City air, and the air in the subways and on the PATH, the air that goes between Jersey and the City. I was immersed in that air every day for four years on the PATh twice a day to get to and from my high school. Hot and heavy and slightly saline--whether from the sweat of thousands of immigrant workers, or the dollar peanuts, or other viscous substances emitted by whoever--the first thing that comes to mind when I think about it now, six hundred miles away, are the toxic bright yellow lines on dead gray concrete. That, and steam. The air, even inside the PATH where they pump AC, is steamy and heavy. It sits on your shoulders like a conscience, reminding you that the City is what it is--dirty but full of everything, anything you can think of. But then what is that? A whiff of flowers or something. Perfume. Cologne. Whatever. Something new to the mix, strangling that scent that hangs in the air, another reminder that things are changing. Slowly. The perfume stays for a few moments then goes, but comes back when another tourist boards. Slightly omnipresent, like a ghost, in and out. I don't like the perfumed air. I love the stale, muggy air. It reminds me of day trips to the city--the American Museum of Natural History, the Intrepid, Radio City. It reminds me of high school--all those days dressed in khaki and dress shirts, watching as vagrants begged four feet away, hoping that they wouldn't come close enough that I'd have to interact. Then there is always that burst, that new cologne, a tourist in a cowboy hat or an I <3 New York shirt, forcing their way into a seat, oblivious of the old black grandmother, two grandkids in tow that couldn't make it fast enough from the platform.